It's always someone else
Always them but never you
Until it DOES happen and suddenly that's all you are
Just a product of a sad past
Becoming less than human - you are bits and pieces of a person
Required to hide your face or else you will scare the children
The webbing of cracked porcelain, like a broken antique doll, stretch across your covered body
And you leak from those wounds, salty raindrops can no longer be contained inside
With every fissure that extends over your brain, there is another moment of delirium - taken to an unholy place to relive your past
You cover up these wounds and memories with beautiful dreams of pastel blues and lavender
Truly, the question is, what is a dream if not an escape from a sad reality, even if just a reality that lives in the dark corners of your mind.
The anguish fills up your head like a dark, thick liquid - occasionally it must be poured out
Everyone has their method for emptying - a knife, a bottle, a bag, or for me, paper
Tilt your head and let the ink flow from the cracks, spilling on the paper and pooling into words of raw power
Relief lays in its place, until the next time
And soon it becomes a routine
YOU ARE READING
We Became The Mad Men
PoetryI must wash the blood off my hands and the only way is with ink ~ Collection of my poetry.
